


The One

by bornforwar_archivist



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornforwar_archivist/pseuds/bornforwar_archivist
Summary: By Desire{set within ‘Chosen’} What really happened between Spike and Buffy in the basement the night before the big final battle? Joss left it wide open to our imaginations, and I’m filling in the blanks.





	The One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Delenn, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Born For War](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Born_For_War), which closed in 2015. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in March 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Born For War collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bornforwar).
> 
> Rating: R 
> 
> Status: COMPLETE 
> 
> Summary:{set within ‘Chosen’} What really happened between Spike and Buffy in the basement the night before the big final battle? Joss left it wide open to our imaginations, and I’m filling in the blanks.

**Chapter 1:**  
  
  
Rating: A PG-13 for now, but that’ll change to an R later for adult content (ooooh…naughty stuff)…   
  
Part: (1/3)   
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns all here. I’m simply playing out a few of my perverse fantasies with his characters, cause I’m single right now and so very, very lonely…*sobs quietly*.   
  
Summary:{set within ‘Chosen’} What really happened between Spike and Buffy in the basement the night before the big final battle? Joss left it wide open to our imaginations, and I’m filling in the blanks.   
  
Distribution: Want. Take. Have. Just tell me where it’s going (I like to keep up with my babies). Oh and what’s this…Dee actually has her own website now?! She sure does. Still under construction but check out what’s there if you’re interested and don’t forget to give praise to the wonderful, amazing Nikita, who put it all together.   
  
http://www.flesh-for-fantasy.com/desire/main.html   
  
***************   
  
Andrew wants him to be an elf.   
  
"If you cross classes with a – a druid, you can call upon the forces of the Earth. Like, um, control wind and water, and – and animals…"   
  
He stares at him for a second, hating the way his little scrunched up face is shadowed by that stupid cape. He’s mocking him. Probably picturing what he would look like with the pointy elf ears and the peroxide hair…   
  
Spike pulls a face, turning to Xander,   
  
"What are you?"   
  
He’s busily filling in the remaining boxes on his character sheet. Doesn’t bother to look up at him and squints, focusing his good eye, and tilts the sheet towards the candlelight. Stupid candles,   
  
"A human/sorcerer, baby." Xander looks up, smirking at Giles. "Fully prepared to make your dwarf…" he pauses, brow knit, searching for the right word, "dwarfier?" he frowns.   
  
"I want to be one of those."   
  
He’s doing it again, scrunching up his face. Andrew seems to do that every time you don’t understand a Star Wars reference or if you can’t name at least one Dr. Who episode title. It was some geek superiority twitch the boy had…   
  
Spike hates it.   
  
"Spike, Spike, Spike…" he sighs, flipping his cape. Wanker. "A sorcerer isn’t a good character for a beginner to start out with," he laughs and shakes his head. "Plus, two human sorcerers. You would have all the same spells…" Andrew mumbles, still chuckling to himself. "So naïve…"   
  
Fuck it.   
  
He doesn’t want to sit around with Giles, Xander, ‘Red Riding Hood’, and…what’s her name again? She smiles at him while she attempts to explain the importance of elfin druids, and how they really aren’t "lame" (her words), but he can’t remember which one of the Potentials she is.   
  
There were so many of those little girls running around the house, that they all began to blur to him. Never knew any names, except for a few of the earlier arrivals. They were reduced to being recognized as ‘The One who only eats Tatertots’, or ‘The one who’s always asking him for tampons’. Never actual names, Spike only knew them by their quirks or appearances:   
  
‘The One with the acne problem.’   
  
‘The One who leaves her toenail clippings on the carpet.’   
  
‘The Asian One, who won’t let Giles anywhere near her’,   
  
And ‘The Tall, Gangly, Homely One’, who was trying damn hard to sell him on the idea of being an elf. He sighs and gives her a polite smile and nods his head in appreciation,   
  
"I won’t be a sodding elf," he says.   
  
Spike carefully steps over the bodies of the girls whose names he can’t remember as he makes his way to the basement. The house is so cramped, and crowded. No wonder he spends most of his time downstairs; it’s the only place where he can have peace of mind and not be asked to buy products associated with the feminine hygiene isle in the grocery.   
  
Most of the girls are tossing and turning, lots of sighing, and a few are actually sitting up…   
  
They’re restless. Terrified, more than likely.   
  
And who can blame them? He pauses at the door, his hand resting on the knob as he watches them. A flock of sheep getting ready to charge into the wolf’s den; Spike opens the door before he can finish the rest of that thought. Didn’t want to think of these girls as just cannon fodder, not even the one he caught using his duster as a ‘towel’ on laundry day.   
  
The basement smells like stale cigarette smoke and Tide.   
  
Spike’s nose turns up briefly. He shrugs. The cigarette smell actually makes him want one. He removes the box from underneath his pillow and lights one up, inhaling deeply. They don’t make cigarettes like they use to. People became ponces, all concerned with their health. Stick a filter on the end of this, get the Surgeon General to say a few words of discouragement, maybe smack a big picture of the blackest lung they could find on the side of a pack, and bam! Every smoker is a leper and every cigarette is a watered down version of what it use to be long ago…   
  
But it’ll suffice.   
  
He takes another long drag and pulls the pendant from his pocket.   
  
Meant for a Champion, meant for someone not currently Angel…   
  
His gaze turns to the punching bag and the perfect rendition of Peaches he tacked up there, and he grins,   
  
"Not so cool with your soul and your hair gel now, are you? You’re not the only game in town anymore, mate. Looks like someone fancies me a ‘helper of the helpless’ too. Defender of puppies and grandma’s…"   
  
He frowns suddenly.   
  
How exactly is he supposed to be these things?   
  
The White Knight routine was Angel’s gig; the tortured man battling, his demon, trying to make amends was his job description. Maybe something got lost in the translation; Angel misunderstood and gave Buffy the pendant when he was supposed to keep it for himself. Or maybe Angel just gave it to her for shits and giggles, not really thinking she would be daft enough to give it to the likes of him.   
  
His eyes narrow and he stands. The cigarette, which is burned down to the filter, is gripped between his thumb and forefinger,   
  
and Spike glowers before putting the butt out in the middle of ‘Angel’s’ forehead.   
  
Poofter.   
  
He dangles the bauble before his eyes, studying it as he settles back against the wall. He was never meant to be a Champion. This was all some cosmic joke, a couple of Gods, or Powers, or whatever, all strutting around in their Birkenstocks, on their puffy white clouds, laughing their asses off at him. He wasn’t even capable of being great when he was alive. Always the simpering mama’s boy, the one who couldn’t pay attention in class, and later the sensitive fellow who would gladly hand over his purse to any robber if said robber would refrain from doing him any bodily harm…   
  
What part of that screams Champion?   
  
All of the disgusting things he did as a vampire. He can feel it, all of that blood on his hands like a stain that won’t come out, but he isn’t truly sorry. Can’t take anything back, what’s the point of repenting. It’s always there; he’s branded…   
  
The men he slaughtered, the women and little girls he…   
  
And Buffy…   
  
There’s your big hero.   
  
He sighs, the sound of boots clunking down the wooden stairs grabs his attention and Spike climbs to his feet.  
  
 **Chapter Two**  
  
  
Author’s Note: A BIG thanks to everyone for the great reviews. And just a reminder that the next and last chapter in this story will be rated R. If that’s not exactly your cup of tea, drop me a line in the review section or email me, and I’ll send you a more PG-13 version.   
  
*****************   
  
She has a speech prepared and everything. Arms folded, stern look carefully in place, and she’s all ready to unload it until:   
  
"You weren’t lookin to get this bed back anytime soon were you, B?"   
  
Buffy’s arms relax, her hands settle down into her jean pockets, as she watches Faith yawn widely and snuggle under the covers.   
  
She smiles. "No, I was just checking up on it. You know, making sure the covers were still – fluffy and cover-y."   
  
So much for her ‘it’s the end of the world and I want my bed’ speech.   
  
"Oh," Faith says, stretching lazily. "For a minute, I thought you were gonna make me give up these plush digs."   
  
Buffy quirks her lip. "Wouldn’t dream of it."   
  
This might be her last night on earth she wasn’t delusional enough to ignore the possibility. The plan could go horribly wrong (wouldn't be the first time), all of these girls who entrusted their lives to her could die, fighting a war they never asked nor wanted to be a part of. Not to mention her friends and Dawn – the only real family she has left, unless she suddenly decides to count her shiftless, absentee father…   
  
Another delusion she wasn’t willing to give in to.   
  
Was it selfish to want more than anything to spend this, possible last night in her bed, surrounded by her New Kids on the Block posters?   
  
"Yo, if you’re leaving, could you shut the light off on your way out?"   
  
Buffy smiles and takes a moment to look around the room. The pictures on the corkboard, the window she spent countless nights sneaking in and out of, and the Jordan Knight picture collage she stealthily hid in the corner by her bed,   
  
She sighs, her smile widening from the memories and shuts off the light.   
  
"But what about my bag of illusions?!"   
  
The sound of Giles’ rather distraught voice causes Buffy to stop at the bottom of the stairs, and she curiously tilts her head to the side. ‘Bag of illusions?’ If Giles had one of those, whatever the hell it is, why didn’t he say something about it earlier? He knows they need any weapon they can get their hands on to battle the First.   
  
She shrugs and opens the front door, stepping outside,   
  
"Guess a bag of whosawhatsit wouldn’t help anyway," she mutters.   
  
There’s a slight chill in the air and she wraps her arms around her middle. It’s clear out, eerily peaceful, and for the first time, she realizes theirs is the only house left on the block with a burning porch light. Everyone’s gone, stuffed whatever the could of their lives into a car and just drove off towards a Sunnydale-less future – whatever that may hold.   
  
She thinks about it lots of times, mostly lying in her bed where maybe she can feel a little less guilty, what a Sunnydale-less future would be like. In the past, the vision always consisted of Dawn, Willow, Xander, Giles, and herself all retiring from the life of violence somewhere tropical. Where Xander won’t stand out in his Hawaiian shirts and she can get a great tan. Giles would have an earring and Dawn would be dating a surfer; and of course she would come home from long days of lifeguarding at the beach, to Angel who would have dinner ready and waiting…   
  
But lately, that vision keeps shifting. The gang’s all there, naturally, but instead of walking in the door and being greeted by a pair of soulful brown eyes, she’s met with the most electric blue she’s ever seen. The smell of coconut mysteriously transforms into the staleness of a cigarette; and the voice warmly saying ‘Honey, you’re home’, is decidedly Cockney.   
  
"Is he your boyfriend?"   
  
Buffy sighs and wearily shakes her head. This is the last thing her mind should be on.   
  
"I see you’re getting in a little quiet reflection too, huh?"   
  
She turns, a warm smile immediately forming on her lips at the sound of her best friend’s voice,   
  
"It’s the perfect night for it. Who could sleep?"   
  
Willow grins, "Anya’s passed out, drooling on the kitchen table."   
  
"Oh," Buffy shrugs. "Well, besides the crazy ones."   
  
The redhead chuckles and takes her place at Buffy’s side. A comfortable silence builds between the two as they stare out into the darkness.   
  
"Will," Buffy begins after a moment, "do you ever think about the future?"   
  
"Sure. Actually, a few days ago, I was thinking about getting something pierced. You know, cause Kennedy’s got the tongue ring and that’s --," she blushes, "alotta fun. I was thinking future Willow would walk on the wild side…maybe pierce my ears again."   
  
"Future Willow is unpredictable," Buffy grins.   
  
"Damn straight," Willow nods proudly. "She even swears more, too."   
  
Buffy pauses. "Angel was here…"   
  
"Ohh."   
  
"And seeing him – it just got me thinking about what I want for future Buffy. I had the ‘I Love Lucy’ domestic vision of him and me together some day, and I held onto that for so long…" her voice trails off and she takes a deep breath.   
  
"I had those too," Willow says, giving her a knowing smile.   
  
Buffy raises an eyebrow,   
  
"Uh, not about you and Angel – or uh, me and Angel," Willow shakes her head. "I used to see myself backstage at some big arena waiting for the Dingoes to finish their completely sold out concert to a packed house of thirty thousand screaming fans. I would have bottled water, oh, and a towel, waiting with baited breath for Oz to come running off that stage," she pauses. "And then that future changed to me coming home to find Miss Kitty Fantasico playing with one of those big balls of yarn and Tara sitting lazily on the couch, waiting on me so that we can watch a documentary on the Salem Witch Trials." A smile breaks out on Willow’s face and she dabs her now misty eyes with the sleeve of her PJ’s. "She would watch it just for me, just to keep me from getting upset."   
  
She sighs heavily. "That vision can change for everyone, Buffy. I mean, Oz is gone, and Tara…"   
  
Buffy slips her arm around Willow’s shoulder and offers her a tiny smile.   
  
"And Miss Kitty…"   
  
"Sorry about that," Buffy cringes, "Dawn didn’t know the string was slip-y."   
  
"All I’m saying is, if the Angel in future Buffy’s life, isn’t so – Angel like it’s O.K. Things change. And hey! If we all die tomorrow, then you won’t have to worry about it," Willow says, smirking wickedly.   
  
Buffy laughs. "Yeah, there’s always that."   
  
"I think there’s one last Hot Pocket left in the freezer. I’ll, spilt it with you. I’m pretty sure Andrew taped his name on the box again, but we can take it off and then tell him it was never there," Willow says with a devilish look in her eyes.   
  
Buffy softly chuckles. "You are quite the evil genius, Will."   
  
"Yeah," she grins. "Future Willow’s also going to be a criminal mastermind, in addition to having her cartilage pierced."   
  
"I’ll pass on the Hot Pocket. There’s something I think I should take care of before the end of the world."   
  
  
  
She has this speech prepared. All of it is formed out perfectly in her head as her hand glides down the banister on the basement stairs. Buffy knows exactly what she’s going to say, until she sees him. Spike’s standing directly across from her, silent, a ghost of a smile on his lips…   
  
And suddenly she’s speechless  
  
 **Chapter Three**  
  
  
He watches her lips move. With every contraction of her jaw muscles he frowns; his eyes narrow into a squint and he can feel his face scrunching up:   
  
"What?" Willow asks innocently, her mouth suspiciously full. She swallows and wipes at the bit of sauce on the corner of her mouth with her hand.   
  
Andrew sighs deeply and folds his arms over his chest, just underneath the bow of his cape,   
  
"I had that box clearly marked this time!" he whines. "I – I wrote my name on it in blue Sharpie…"   
  
She shrugs and slightly hangs her head. Would Future Willow feel this guilty about eating the last Hot Pocket? "I – I didn’t see anything," Willow stutters, looking at her bare feet.   
  
Slowly she glances up at Andrew. His face is scrunched all disapproving like and he’s tapping his foot. The sound of his shoe hitting the linoleum pounds in her ear and Willow can feel herself begin to break into a sweat,   
  
This is bad, so very, very bad. "What?" she shrugs nervously. "I really didn’t."   
  
  
  
  
  
Spike smiles at her, arms folded, attempting to be casual, but she can see the uncertainty behind his eyes,   
  
"I take it Faith’s still occupying your room," he says as he turns away from her and heads towards his bed.   
  
And it annoys her to no end.   
  
Sure, what they have wasn’t exactly built on sturdy, solid relationship foundations like trust or God, even silly things like hugs and flowers and stolen kisses outside of a window with her mom just down the hall, but she came to accept it long ago. Accept the fact that whatever it is between them, will never be normal. They’ve been through too much, seen much more of each other’s darkest, ugliest side than they both would’ve liked – but it’s past.   
  
This whole year’s been nothing but baby steps. With Spike playing ‘Caution-Man’ and she too readily going along with the game. Everything now is done with uncertainty, hesitation…   
  
She misses looking in his eyes and seeing nothing but complete confidence. Buffy takes a deep breath and puts on a smile as she pushes away the idea that the very thing she misses the most about him, she’s responsible for getting rid of.   
  
"Oh yeah. Last I checked, she was all tucked in."   
  
Spike gives her an affectionate smile over his shoulder, and pulls out the pack of cigarettes from underneath his pillow. "Make yourself comfortable, luv," He slips one between his lips and quickly lights up. "Doubt you’ll get any sleep, though. Who the hell could?"   
  
"If you listen close enough, you can hear Anya snoring," she says wryly.   
  
"Always knew that bird was insane."   
  
Buffy shifts uncomfortably on her feet as Spike takes a seat on the end of the bed, casually smoking. She listlessly pulls at imaginary lint on her shirt, desperately wracking her brain for words to fill in the growing silence.   
  
She sighs heavily, words failing her for now –   
  
"We’re in serious need of crickets," she mumbles and takes a step towards him.   
  
Spike exhales the smoke, looking at her questioningly. "Hmm? What was that, luv?"   
  
When she came down the stairs, she had this whole speech prepared. Words so perfectly strewn together that got everything out in the open; and somewhere in between her foot hitting that last step and his eyes locking on hers, she forgot it all –   
  
Every last word.   
  
Buffy sighs audibly and inches closer to Spike. She’s done enough speechifying this month alone to last ten lifetimes. She opens her mouth to speak and secretly hopes that, whatever comes out makes some kind of sense:   
  
"I had this whole baked-good analogy," she begins, tugging on her bottom lip with her teeth. "I was cake batter – or muffins – or something…"   
  
Spike stares at her blankly. "Cake batter?"   
  
"Cookies!" she says triumphantly throwing her hands in the air. "I told Angel I was cookie dough."   
  
He stamps out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and quirks a brow. "You didn’t by any chance happen to get into those mushrooms growing out in the woods near the vineyard, did ya, Slayer?"   
  
"No," Buffy rolls her eyes and takes a seat next to him on the bed. "See, I told Angel that I was like cookie dough. Raw and unshaped, not quite cookies yet. That I wasn’t completely ready in the past for a real relationship, because I was still baking…"   
  
He patronizingly nods his head, giving her a ‘humor the mental patient’ type of look.   
  
"It all made perfect sense at the time," she grins, sighing a bit. "The point is, I am still baking – I’m not quite ‘Cookie-Buffy’ yet. It’ll probably be a long time before I am, but these last few months that we’ve gotten closer, you know in the non-sweaty sexual way, I’ve felt…"   
  
Her voice trails off as she looks at him. Spike’s eyes are earnest and filled with so much hope, but underneath, she can see the uncertainty. Buffy sighs again and gives a tiny shrug of her shoulders,   
  
"I dunno," she mutters. "I’ve felt – almost done. Like, the bottom half of ‘Cookie-me’ is browned and maybe some of the sides, but the part in the middle is still kinda gooey," she pauses, wringing her hands nervously. "I waited forever to say this, mostly because I was afraid. Afraid that I might lose myself in you, in that not-so healthy way again – but I’m different now – we’re different and I know that won’t happen again."   
  
"Buffy…" he begins. She quietly brings a finger to his lips, shushing him for the time being, and lets it linger there for a moment:   
  
"Whatever happens tomorrow, if we don’t make it," her voice drops almost to a whisper, "I just want us to have tonight."   
  
Spike’s eyes widen in pure disbelief and Buffy lets out a self-deprecating laugh,   
  
"Boy, wasn’t that just the cheesy-est thing you’ve ever heard?"   
  
He blinks a couple of times. Not really sure if he heard her correctly and completely not sure what to say to her if he had. She’s looking at him expectantly, waiting for some sort of word or hell even a syllable to come out of his mouth.   
  
Spike draws in an unnecessary breath, his face twisting into that look of caution,   
  
"Buffy are you sure about this?"   
  
She smiles and says nothing. She’s tired of words for now; she answers him instead with a kiss.   
  
He’s caught of guard, stunned, but not stupid; he kisses her back.   
  
Buffy tries to remember if they’ve always kissed like this. Hard and fast: he pulls her against him, his tongue roughly probing her mouth. Suddenly, as if a light bulb clicked in her mind, she pulls away,   
  
They have always kissed like this.   
  
Panting, nearly breathless, she gently lays a hand on his cheek.   
  
"No – this isn’t…" she begins, a ghost of a smile forms on her lips. "This isn’t like that," Buffy presses a chaste kiss to his swollen lips, "I want us to go slow, take our time…" She hangs her head as if embarrassed, a blush sweeps across her cheeks. "I want to feel you."   
  
He’s dreamed, of this, a million different times, in a million different ways, but never once did the fantasy of making love to Buffy consist of a lumpy bed in a dank basement. He wants something posh: a real bed with some candles and maybe a little Barry White playing in the background just to be cliché. She deserves special…   
  
Spike smiles at her and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He ignores the sound of the hot water heater clanging and the stale smell of cigarettes and Tide in the air and kisses her softly, letting his lips graze hers. Letting both of them feel.   
  
Special’s what you make it.   
  
Fingers struggle with stubborn fabric, buttons and zippers. The, pair, seem like teenagers doing this for the first time: the only time when this matters, most of all. Awkwardly, they move further onto the bed, and she rolls him over, and straddles his waist.   
  
Spike looks up at her, hands firmly gripping her bare sides, a cheeky grin on his lips,   
  
"I don’t think so, luv," he says playfully before flipping her over.   
  
Buffy lets out a tiny gasp as her back hits the mattress and narrows her eyes.   
  
"Hey!" Her lips reluctantly curl into a smile when he moves between her denim-clad legs.   
  
"We’re doing this right, remember?"   
  
Spike’s voice is barely above a whisper and her body shudders underneath him the moment his lips teasingly graze her neck. Eyes shut, the nails of strong, graceful fingers lightly raking over the smooth expanse of his back; Buffy becomes almost completely lost to the feel of open-mouth kisses, and the painful slow tracing of her jugular his tongue was now engrossed in.   
  
"You’re so beautiful." She hears him whisper as he gently nuzzles her hair.   
  
The flurry of soft kisses continue back down the path previously traced: sweeping across her collarbone, dipping downwards above the valley between her breasts. He pulls back, bringing up a hand to quickly undo the front clasp of her bra. She sits up, allowing him to slip the offending object off her shoulders and he wastes no time tossing it aside.   
  
A moan catches in the back of her throat the moment his teeth tug on her nipple: never one to be selfish, he massages the other with his hand. Her back arches slightly as he alternates between her two mounds, kneading one while nipping and sucking on the other. Buffy groans in disappointment at the loss of contact when Spike once more pulls back on his knees.   
  
Nimble fingers deftly undo the buttons of her jeans before working down the zipper. She raises her hips, allowing him to remove the pants. Spike moves further down on the bed as he pulls them off of her legs, then expertly sends them sailing over the edge to join the rest of the mini pile of clothing.   
  
Placing his cool hands on the warm skin of her hips again, he hooks his thumbs into the sides of her panties and slowly works them down and off.   
  
Buffy swallows the hard lump that’s formed in her throat. The way he’s looking at her, seemingly drinking all of her in sends a small twinge of insecurity racing through her body. It’s like he’s gazing upon some virgin goddess, some impossible standard of perfection and purity battle-worn, self-conscious, emotionally unavailable Buffy couldn’t ever live up to—   
  
She props herself up slightly, frowning,   
  
"I’m not the Madonna, you know!" Buffy finds herself snapping at him.   
  
"I know," Spike calmly states, lightly tracing a finger over her hip. "You’ve got a scar right there." He drags the finger upward towards her navel. "And a freckle right above your belly-button. You don’t have to tell me that you’re not perfect I know, that better than anyone," he smiles softly. "Wouldn’t love you if you didn’t have a few scars."   
  
Her features soften and she tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth as he crawls back up her naked form. His head dips and he pulls her into a brief kiss before laying her back down on the bed. Spike descends once more, leaving a trail of wet kisses across the taut flesh of her stomach, stopping at the junction of her thighs, and opening them up wider for him.   
  
He takes in an unnecessary breath, further filling up his nose with her sweet musky scent. His cool tongue traces along her outer lips, grabbing just a taste before plunging in. It sweeps upward, finding her most sensitive spot, and coaxes it out to play. She arches up as he teases her clit, burying his face further in her sex.   
  
A growl of pure satisfaction escapes his lips at the array of mewls emitting from her. He adds a finger to the mix, using the digit to stroke her inner walls while his mouth nips and sucks until he feels her spasm around him.   
  
Body limp and breathing hard sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead; Buffy lifts up for a brief moment and watches Spike kick off his jeans. Her eyes never leave his as he settles between her, positioning himself at her opening and she holds a breath, willing herself not to cry out when he penetrates her.   
  
Small hands grip well-rounded shoulders as Spike buries himself in her, inch by inch. Her legs draw up, her feet now rest at his hips and he begins a rhythm that is all at once consuming and earth shattering—   
  
Buffy can’t remember if all of their other times together were anything like this.   
  
Her lips descend on his and her feet lock at the small of his back. Both moan into the kiss, pouring everything into the fiery duel. The fear of the battle ahead, the uncertainty of what tonight means if they survive tomorrow, the feeling of being with one another for all of the right reasons…   
  
Buffy breaks the kiss and pulls him tighter. Spike buries his head in the crook of her neck and she cries out as he grinds down on her clit with each joining.   
  
Fingernails leave rows of red welts when she grips the flesh on his back as she comes and Buffy lies there completely sated while he continues to pound into her. Moments later, he finally finds his own climax and the weight of his body presses down into hers as it goes limp.   
  
***   
  
"What the bloody hell are you doing?"   
  
Spike raises an eyebrow looking truly amused as Buffy closely inspects his body. Her eyes roam every inch of his skin and he jumps a little when the tip of her nose grazes his flesh.   
  
"That tickles!" he chuckles. "And I feel right unmanly by saying that."   
  
Buffy smiles at him, looking up from her ‘work’,   
  
"It’s not fair that you know every scar and freckle on me and the base of what I know about your body is ‘mmm abs’."   
  
He grins. "So, you’re gonna find every mark on me there is, tonight?"   
  
"Yep," Buffy says shortly a coy look forming on her features. "At least the ones I didn’t leave anyway."   
  
Spike grabs her and pulls her down beside him.   
  
"There’ll be plenty of time to find everything. You don’t have to do it all now." He kisses the top of her forehead reassuringly.   
  
The look on her face becomes serious and her eyes cast downward. "You don’t know that," Buffy says softly.   
  
"Yes I do. Neither one of us is going anywhere."   
  
Silence builds between the two and Buffy snuggles up to him. Her head rests on his chest as her finger draws lazy circles on his stomach.   
  
"How do you feel about white-picket-fences?" she asks suddenly.   
  
  
  
  
  
The camera mounted perfectly straight ahead, Andrew moves into the shot, taking a seat on the barstool and quickly fixes his hair,   
  
"Okay, so this is it, the uh – big night before um the First kills us all," he laughs humorlessly. "As you can see, all’s pretty quiet in command central. Only you’re faithful host and a few others remain awake now."   
  
Andrew sighs and folds his hands in his lap. "I just wanted to take this time to immortalize the moment. However the world turns out for you gentle viewers, I want you to know that the heroes fought hard. They gave everything, including their lives. So, I leave you with this; this night frozen in time and the hope that the Force is strong with you in the future."   
  
He gazes solemnly into the camera lens for a moment before slowly raising the remote and shutting it off.   
  


The End


End file.
